Weekly Insight from the Oracles for May 19, 2019

May 19, 2019 | Filed Under Tarot, Runes, Oracles, Weekly Insight | No Comments

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Poem: Today I asked my body what she needed ~ Hollie Holden

May 9, 2019 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | No Comments

Today I asked my body what she needed
~ Hollie Holden

Today I asked my body what she needed,
Which is a big deal
Considering my journey of
Not Really Asking That Much.

I thought she might need more water.
Or protein.
Or greens.
Or yoga.
Or supplements.
Or movement.

But as I stood in the shower
Reflecting on her stretch marks,
Her roundness where I would like flatness,
Her softness where I would like firmness,
All those conditioned wishes
That form a bundle of
She whispered very gently:

Could you just love me like this?


L!fe Notebook

May 7, 2019 | Filed Under Things I Think About | No Comments

I have been grumpy for a while. Seriously cranky and irritable and generally displeased with everything since mid-March, when I caught a cold on a business trip, and spent 12 days in Europe, unable to breathe and running a fever and not having a good time in any way, while doing business and missing out on a lot of wonderful experiences because I was too sick to leave the hotel.

My friends have been kind and patient (far more than I would expect anyone to be), and listened supportively as I express my dissatisfaction with myself, my life, and the world at large.

But, oh, my gods, I’m sick of it, and I’m tired of hearing myself be unhappy and dissatisfied with everything.

There’s nothing wrong with venting about real problems, but I realized I had become stuck in a permanent state of “I hate everything and nothing works and everything sucks and I’m tired”. And, most of all, I was tired of listening to myself.

I have a gratitude journal practice, but that wasn’t helping. On the spur of the moment, I grabbed a small L!fe notebook given to me by my friend Cindy a few months ago. I don’t usually use tiny notebooks, but I stashed this one with the idea that I’d think of something to do with it.

So, on this particular day (May 1, as a matter of fact), I was tired of my own voice in my own head, and I grabbed this notebook, noted the date, and wrote, “The rose that was dug out from the back yard two years ago has resurfaced, and has bloomed unexpectedly.”

I felt better.

The notebook now lives in my purse, so it goes with me everywhere. It sits on my desk as I work at the office, and on the desk in my study at home as I write (or think about writing, or pretend to think about writing, depending on the day).

That the notebook maker is called “L!fe” is not a subtlety.

Now, when I have a cranky thought, I stop and write a note about one good thing in my little notebook.

“One of the neighbors is baking, and the breeze is carrying the scent to our yard.”

“There are clean sheets on the bed, waiting for me at the end of the day.”

“I polished my boots yesterday, and they are wonderfully shiny.”

Little things.

Good things.

Things that will make a difference only if I stop and notice them.

And they’re so wonderful, why would I choose to ignore them?

Then I go back to the cranky thought to see if it still matters.

It usually doesn’t.


Poem: The Well ~ Denise Levertov

 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | No Comments

The Well
~ Denise Levertov

At sixteen I believed the moonlight
could change me if it would.
I moved my head
on the pillow, even moved my bed
as the moon slowly
crossed the open lattice.

I wanted beauty, a dangerous
gleam of steel, my body thinner,
my pale face paler.
I moonbathed
diligently, as others sunbathe.
But the moon’s unsmiling stare
kept me awake. Mornings,
I was flushed and cross.

It was on dark nights of deep sleep
that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well,
and woke rested, and if not beautiful,
filled with some other power.


Poem: Under a Wild Green Fig Tree ~ Edward Hirsch

May 3, 2019 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | No Comments

Under a Wild Green Fig Tree
~ Edward Hirsch

I am going to eat seven pomegranate seeds
and lie down under a wild green fig tree
in a field that has been ploughed three times

because I want to sleep in fertile soil
sinking into dream time, dream space,
and slip past the door to the underworld,

which has been left ajar for questers
and adepts, for reckless night revelers
stumbling into the corridor of ghosts,

so I can wander the subterranean realm
and listen to Persephone’s hell songs,
music she could learn only in Hades—

the low, fateful lyrics of death,
the soul’s radical return to innocence,
the earth’s eternal movement and passage,

our deep human labor to become spirits,
our almost vegetal need to be reborn,
the cycle of loss, myth of regeneration.


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